


Words To Guide You

by Dawen



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Blizzard of '68, M/M, Yep I went there, implied suicidal thoughts, non-graphic genocide, non-graphic nasty things happening to Jack, non-graphic war, seriously almost everything about Jack is through Aster's words, soulmate fic, they aren't happening but there is concern that they are, which are non-graphic but still worrying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-04-03 21:07:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14004771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawen/pseuds/Dawen
Summary: Bunnymund did not, in fact, see his words again until after those Russians and the new Tsar dragged him into defending the newly-spherical planet against Pitch Black. Even then it was an accident, blood and engine oil spilling on his arms, and he caught sight of his wrists as he washed up.Settler.(Or, E. Aster Bunnymund has a soulmate, who is apparently not a Pooka. And he makes alotof mistakes before he meets his beloved.)





	Words To Guide You

**Author's Note:**

> So this... was supposed to be for a kink meme prompt? Except the prompt gave an abbreviated background where Bunny screws up spectacularly and then has to go about wooing Jack afterwards. 
> 
> And this is basically just that background, expanded.
> 
> And _then_ I remembered I'm pretty horrible at writing romance, so it probably won't be continued. (Even though I have a great whumpy background for Jack that the story only touches on via the words.)
> 
> Anyway, the prompt is here, if anyone wants it: http://rotg-kink.dreamwidth.org/2200.html?thread=2394008#cmt2394008

It started out as normal protocol. On-duty warriors  weren’t supposed to look at their words at all; any kind of drastic change could make a warrior horribly unpredictable at the worst of times. Most recruits complained – but then, most recruits’ words changed frequently, and had more than seven different phrases to cycle through.

Private Bunnymund’s beloved hadn’t been born yet, and the behavior of his words proved it.

~

He saw how his fellow warriors were affected by their words after leave. They would come back shaken, or buzzing with pent-up energy. They would talk about what new, never-before-seen phrase had been under their bracers when they first took off the uniform. They came back after three days of remedial training, to get their minds back on the war at hand.

Sergeant Bunnymund still had to complete the remedial training, of course. Even if the phrase under his bracers, identical on both wrists, didn’t seem to change in the first five years he’d been a warrior.

It wasn’t like it was anything new.

~

More and more warriors returned, shaken and worried, from their leave even as fewer and fewer warriors were allowed – could afford to be allowed – leave in the first place.

They were finding phrases like _dead_ and _rotting_ and _scaredscaredscaredFEARLING_ under their bracers.

Many had no words at all anymore, and that was how they knew the Fearlings were winning.

First Lieutenant Bunnymund didn't like to take his bracers off, even on the bare few times he got leave anymore. It seemed he was always active-duty, and he was always required to wear his bracers, and he preferred it to seeing what his warriors saw.

~

Colonel Bunnymund landed on some unknown planet in some unknown star system. The last of his warriors had been killed lightyears back; he hadn't had communication with Pooka or Starmen or even the Lunanoff dynasty in even longer; he was barely hanging on by a thread, thanks only to the First Light tucked away in his ship and the trail that young Lunanoff's ship was leaving in its wake.

He was no longer active duty. There was no warrior pact any more; even if there was, he had run far enough and fast enough that they would have declared him deserted. If there were any left. His bracers were still on.

He left his ship and spent perhaps three hours collecting readings from this planet he had landed on. It seemed uninhabitable, and as he drew a star system map from his calculations he saw it was outside of the system's habitable zone. The Colonel packed up his equipment and left the dusty, red, oxidizing planet behind him.

~

Very shortly Colonel Bunnymund found another planet, closer to the native star. It was well within the habitable zone and, even better, Lunanoff's ship was in orbit around it already. As the Colonel approached, he admired the beautiful egg shape of the planet. When he landed, he sent his report to the Lunanoff ship and then set about making the planet more spherical, so that it would remain in the habitable zone during the next few billion years.

Then he laid down, somewhere in the new continent he had created, and he slept.

He still wore his bracers.

~

It took him barely a millennium to get sick of wearing the bracers constantly. They became uncomfortable, especially when he slept. And he did sleep a lot. To solve this problem, Bunnymund put on his longest-sleeved coat and then took off his bracers. He had no chance to see his words.

He went to sleep again, and this time did not wake for millions of years.

~

Bunnymund did not, in fact, see his words again until after those Russians and the new Tsar dragged him into defending the newly-spherical planet against Pitch Black. Even then it was an accident, blood and engine oil spilling on his arms, and he caught sight of his wrists as he washed up.

 

_Settler_.

 

He jolted in surprise, splashing sudsy water out of the basin. He had expected his wrists to go blank millennia ago with the death of his kind, or at least to begin bearing terrible words like _dead_ or _rotting_ or _murdered_. But they still bore the familiar phrase, unhelpful as always when nearly 95% of Pooka could be considered a settler of one form or another, just the same as they had since he was a child. For the first time, he considered that he might have been the one in every hundred births with a beloved who was not Pooka.

 

It was still a familiar phrase, he reminded himself as he put his bracers on again, preparing for battle again. His beloved was still yet to be born.

~

Bunnymund began an annual schedule of peeling back his bracers and his coat sleeves to check his words. They changed as slow as they ever had, once perhaps every three to eight years. They maintained their steady cycle of seven phrases: _settler_ , _brown eyes_ , _son_ , _storyteller_ , _younger brother_ , _older brother_ , and _illiterate_. His words behaved as he was used to.

 

It was in the mortals' year 1694, nearly five billion years after the extinction of Bunnymund's kind, that an eighth phrase appeared.

_Born by a river._

Bunnymund stared at his wrist in unadulterated wonder, one claw caressing the paler fur in which his words appeared. His beloved had finally been born.

~

 

After that fateful year, he began checking his words monthly rather than annually, taking off his bracers and sleeves under the light of the full moon. It felt appropriate to share this intimate ritual with an old acquaintance, even if this acquaintance was several hundred thousand kilometers away. His words changed frequently now; new phrases such as _brown hair_ , _human_ , _excited_ , and _impatient_ appeared approximately once or twice a year, interspersed with the old ones. Verbs started to show up; _laughing_ was one, _sailing_ another.

 

There was one month, when Bunnymund's beloved was approximately three years old, when his words said _hungry_ when he removed his bracers. His heart lodged in his throat, recalling that only two months ago his wrists had read _poor_ , and then he nearly cried with relief when his pale fur blurred, spread into a solid bar, and reformed the phrase _younger brother_.

~

In addition to watching his words more carefully, Bunnymund began taking longer jaunts up to the surface. His best chance to find his beloved would be in this intermittent stage, when the child was old enough to toddle around outside but young enough to believe in stories like the Guardians. He started at major rivers, the Huáng Hé and Yangtze and Yinesei, the Euphrates and the Tigris and the Gihon,  the Indus and the Mahanadi,  the Missouri and the Colorado and the Rio Balsas, the Amazon and the Anconcagua, the Murrumbidgee and the Warrego. Some, such as the Yukon and the Mackenzie and the Olekma, he saved for the summer.

To his chagrin, his beloved was nearly two and a half years old when the word _Christian_ first appeared, and he started searching in Europe for the first time - the Seine and the Danube, the Thames and the Rhine, the Volga and the Tisza.

But he was a Guardian, and the children of the world depended on him, and Easter was always coming.

~

His words became more specific, changed more frequently, and overall became more helpful. _Lives near a pond_ and _sheep herder_ were more helpful than, say, _has a little sister_ or _Quaker_ (Bunnymund researched for months and still did not know what that word meant). Some seemed unhelpful at first, then provided clues with a little logic: _loves borsch in winter_ suggested that his beloved was of Eastern European ethnicity; _making maple candy_ implied a home in north-eastern North America.

And while Bunnymund kept searching - of course Bunnymund kept searching - he was able to quietly rejoice in his beloved's triumphs - _first step, helping to cook, snowball fights_ \- and mourn with his beloved's sorrows - the first time _sad_ appeared, _coal for Christmas, first killed lamb, stillborn sibling_.

~

He started referring to himself as Aster, even as the other Guardians took to Bunny. A small part of him was worried that when he met his beloved, he would introduce himself with his public name instead of his private one, because he had been Bunnymund, the Pooka without family, for so long.

~

When his beloved was approximately six years old, Aster chose to hide his words only during his busiest season: the two months before Easter, and the Easter run itself. He kept his wrists bare the rest of the year. The other Guardians made only a few comments, of losing clothes and becoming nudist, but they couldn't read the phrases and they didn't ask questions about the changing marks.

Aster finally understood why the other warriors had hated covering their words.

~

His beloved grew older, outgrew belief in the Guardians. _Protective_ appeared frequently, presumably because of the little sister. Some phrases made Aster's heart hurt - _first kiss, euphoria, witnesses a public burning_. He worried, a little, that his beloved would never be capable of seeing him again, that his beloved would find a nice Christian girl to marry.

And then Aster's words did the one terrible thing for which he had never prepared himself.

They contradicted each other.

~

It was the winter of 1712 and Aster's wrists read _blue eyes_.

~

Everything seemed to go downhill from that. Aster's beloved appeared to fall upon bad times; the word _lonely_ appeared for the first time, followed in quick succession by _invisible_ and _isolated_ , _cold_ and _scared_ and _the silence hurts_. Aster kept going up top, searching for his poor beloved; he became snappish and cranky with everyone but the sweetest children. St. North made pointed jokes about having maybe just a tiny dab of chocolate. Toothiana waspishly offered to make him some ashwaghandha tea, to which Aster's ears stiffened with embarrassment and he apologized for his recent behavior.

Aster was self-aware enough to realize that he was able to curb his churlishness with his colleagues only because, in between the depressing phrases, the old ones returned - _laughing_ was common, and so was _snowball_ _fights_. _Storyteller_ appeared less frequently; Aster worried that it meant his beloved had fewer people willing to listen to the stories he told.

_Protective_ ebbed and flowed for a time. It would appear often during hard winters, and barely at all during mild winters or the other seasons. Perhaps thirty years into this terribly confusing, saddening period, _protective_ became much more common. Aster wondered if his beloved had had a child.

~

Aster never saw _brown eyes_ again, after that heart-stopping moment when _blue eyes_ first appeared. The frequency had been steadily lessening since his beloved's birth. Aster's words had seemed more concerned with what his beloved was doing and feeling than what he looked like.

_Blue eyes_ quickly became one of the five most common phrases on Aster's wrist after that initial appearance, as though to continuously remind Aster that something had irrevocably changed.

~

Other spirits avoided him. He knew why, of course. He had never been very sociable at all during his time on Earth in the first place, and now - just because he could control himself around his fellow Guardians didn't mean he had the inclination to do the same with other spirits.

He never snapped at a mortal child.

He always behaved worse around winter spirits, because he knew it was winter that had so terribly affected his beloved.

~

It was in 1784 when Aster discovered his mistake.

His wrists read _flying_ and he knew his beloved was a spirit.

~

He could only desperately hope he had not run across his beloved yet, in his foul temper.

At least he was the Guardian of Hope.

~

It was 1866 and Aster's wrists read _painpainpain_.

He tried to keep himself from pulling his ears off, and wondered why anyone had ever thought the words were a blessing.

~

_Scared_ became a common word. So did _ashamed_ and _guilty_. Aster's mainstays, _laughing_ and _making maple candy_ and _snowball fights,_ dropped in frequency. _Protective_ became one of the most common phrases Aster saw, and he worried for the sharp increase.

His temper frayed further, as other phrases started to crop up, like _insomniac_ and _nightmares_. _Nauseous_ seemed to be on a biweekly rotation for a period of several months, often accompanied by _achy_ and _prone to nosebleeds_. _Exhausted_ popped up frequently.

Perhaps five months after that terrible first thought-phrase, _painpainpain_ , came the second: _what do I do?_

~

Aster still could not find his beloved.

~

It was 1867 and Aster barely set foot in the Warren anymore. The thought-phrases were coming thick and fast, as though a dam had broken - _why am I here?_ and _she'll be okay without me_ and _hurthurtpain can I do this?_ Ordinarily this meant Aster was physically close to his beloved, but he never saw a spirit but for his colleagues.

The spirits had learned to stay away decades ago.

Aster settled on his haunches, staring upstream as the Warrego River tumbled by. It was almost December, time to get the third stage of Easter preparation underway in his Warren. But his wrists read _alone alone always alone_ and he didn't know how much longer his beloved could wait.

~

It was the beginning of 1868 and Aster's thirtieth batch of chocolates was cooling on the table. He started the thirty-first, and caught sight of his words.

_I can't, I can't_ blurred to become _why? why does she want this?_

Aster closed his eyes in pain, and when he opened them again, he continued with his recipe.

His words blurred again to form _ashamed._

~

There was still nearly two months until Easter, and Aster's words flowed rapidly from _guilty_ to _who needs an invisible, immature fuckup?_ to _sore_ to  _cold cold cold._ Aster settled his bracers on his arms, his mouth a firm, tight line and his eyes shiny.

~

It was Easter.

It was Easter and Aster had not looked at his wrists in over two months. He didn't know what they said now, as his eggs marched out of his tunnels. He was afraid to look, to see what new pain his beloved had to face alone. He was afraid, not of his wrists reading _murdered_ like he once was, but of them reading _committed suicide_.

It was Easter, and Aster jumped out of his tunnel to face the strongest blizzard he'd yet seen on this blue planet. He stared in bewilderment, a strong shudder vibrating through his body, and tried to make sense of the whirling wind and sleet and ice.

It was Easter, and this blizzard reeked of magic, and Aster saw red.

~

"Wait - don't!"

The little winter spirit spun to face Aster, wide eyed and terrified, shepherd's crook clutched desperately in both hands. It glowed blue very faintly and was the main reason Aster could see the spirit's face through the blizzard. A tiny part of Aster's mind wondered how such a tiny body held so much power. Most of his mind was filled with the red-tinted rage.

Aster took a couple steps forward in the shrieking wind and sleet, and the spirit scrambled backwards a corresponding few feet. The snow around his feet seemed to spontaneously turn from hard-packed, icy misery to the powdery fluff that poofed up in clouds at the slightest disturbance.

"Please - please, sorry - "

"Sorry!" Aster roared, advancing further. His voice sounded faint to his own ears, and he wondered how he could possibly hear this spirit over the wind at all. "Sorry won't fix my holiday! Sorry won't help the kiddies who go out in this!"

"I'm sorry - had no choice - "

"I know what seasonals do! This is not _no choice!_ "

The spirit slammed against a fence, one hand letting go of his staff to correct his balance. Aster pressed forward, and the spirit aimed the crook end at Aster, shaft tucked under his arm, blue glow starting to concentrate in the hook. "Please - don't make me - "

Aster roared and lunged.

A bolt of blue ice slammed into his chest.

Aster went sprawling in the snow, thankfully the soft, powdery stuff left in the spirit's wake. It whipped around his face, threatening to smother him. He started to scramble to his feet, and another bolt caught him in the ankle. Aster groped for an egg grenade, rubbing the ankle against the ground to test for frostbite, and -

The spirit hopped up, into a tree just on the other side of the fence -

Aster's bracer got caught in his bandolier, and in his haste he simply tore it off -

The spirit froze the ground between Aster and the tree, as if he didn't know how far Aster could leap in Earth's low gravity -

Aster's wrist caught his eye, a swirling morass of panic, and then -

Then -

His marking coalesced into an intricate, delicate, stylized arrow -

It pointed to the tree.

Aster froze. The spirit leapt out of the tree and was tossed up into the clouds by an updraft. The movement caught Aster's eye, and he watched as the spirit - the spirit? His beloved? - disappeared into the swirling, sleety onslaught of the storm. The arrow moved to follow the spirit's flight path.

Fuck.

~

It was Easter, a day of new beginnings, and Aster had met his beloved for the first time. He had met his beloved and started a fight. He did not know the spirit's name, or the reason behind the storm, or - well, anything but that this was his beloved.

But it was Easter, and so Aster wrestled his emotions aside and threw all of him that was Spring into the storm, to try and mitigate the damage to his holiday and his believers.

~

It was four days after Easter, Aster saw as he checked his instruments with a large mug of liquid comfort - also known as licorice tisane - in hand. Four days after Easter, and he was finally up, recovered from the effort of taming the blizzard and overseeing the egg run, and able to think logically again.

Stars above knew he needed logic.

He dug out his old, half-filled blank book and flipped it open to the ribbon. Then he recorded everything he could remember of the encounter with his beloved.

His beloved had no choice...?

Aster groaned and scrubbed his face. This was going to be about politics, he could tell. No seasonal spirit could start a storm like _that_ and reasonably claim it was the seasons, the weather, driving them to do it. No, this was a magical storm through and through, a contrived, synthetic storm, and the reasoning behind it would be equally contrived, unnatural. Political.

He had always hated politics.

Well, there was nothing for it. Aster flipped to a blank page and started listing spirits who hated him, along with their abilities and their place in spirit society. His beloved may have tried to curry favor with one. His beloved may have needed a boon from one.

Aster drained his mug and squinted at his list. This would only get him so far, and so he settled back to sketch his beloved, perhaps identify him, perhaps take the portraits around to others. Like an officer asking citizens if they'd seen the criminal in the mugshot, he thought bitterly. Like his beloved was a wanted delinquent.

As he worked, bits and pieces of a plan floated to the top of Aster's mind. He noted each bit down in his book as it came, erratically, each piece following the previous with no sequence or logic behind the letters. He could sort through it and finalize a coherent plan later.

For now, though; for now, he had a beloved likeness to capture.

His wrists read _storyteller_.

**Author's Note:**

> Five points, internet cookies, and my unending admiration if anyone can (correctly) guess what's wrong with Jack based on the symptoms in Aster's words! I did Research for that.


End file.
